


Based on Evidence

by shirleyholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, First Time, Fluff, M/M, a really short fill, beginning of sexy times, john just puts up with him for some reason, sherlock's a smug bastard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-24
Updated: 2012-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 08:56:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirleyholmes/pseuds/shirleyholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock straddled him, large, elegant hands pinning down his shoulders. </p><p>“Think,” he demanded. “When- Else-”</p><p>“During sex,” John gasped and then blushed furiously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Based on Evidence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roane/gifts).



> A little tumblr fic for roane from a heck of a long time ago. Pure Johnlock fluff.

“JOHN. John. I’ve figured it out- it’s brilliant, I tell you-”

“Sherlock, what on earth?” 

John blinked sleepily and jumped at the sight of his flatmate’s face, just millimeters away from his own. “You understand that it’s the middle of the night, you’re in my room and that this is-”

“A bit not good?” Sherlock asked. He looked dreadfully put out. “But the case, John, I’ve solved it-”

“Can’t it wait until morning-” 

Sherlock’s face twisted with petulance. “But-”

“Oh all right. Here. Tell me about it.” John indulgently patted the bed sheet next to him and smothered a yawn. One of these days, he was going to get an award, he reasoned, thoughts still fuzzy with sleep. Surely there were medals in heaven for surviving mad flatmates.

Speaking of which- Sherlock slumped bonelessly onto the bed, spreading himself out flat on his back, trouser-clad calf pressing against the backs of John’s legs and suddenly, the doctor was a heck of a lot more alert. 

“Wait, Sherlock- I didn’t mean-”

“The case John, you promised you’d listen-”

John groaned. Those puppy eyes were needlessly manipulative, he thought resentfully. Of course he was going to have to listen now.

“Fine. Whatever.”

“So, he simple kneeled over right on the tube, as you know. Was leaving for work and then just dropped, quite dead, Traces of poison in his bloodstream, relatively fast-acting, but no indication of how they got there.” 

“It could have been someone on the train- a quick shot. ”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, it wasn’t. He’d have felt an injection going through his arm. ”

“In his morning coffee?”

“Too bitter. It had to have gone straight into the bloodstream.” 

 

“But you just said— how, dammit? You can be goddamned mysterious at any other time of day, but please, spare me-”

“Tell me John, when is a person most vulnerable?”

“When they’re sleeping.”

“Good. But no, the poison was administered later, judging by when he died.”

Sherlock turned so that they were facing each other and, delicately lifting his hand, ran a finger down John’s shoulder and across his collarbone.

“What the buggering-”

“When else, John?”

John actually couldn’t breathe, what with Sherlock’s face a bare centimeter away from his, so he doubted he was going to be much help right now.

I should really kick him out, he thought vaguely. But that didn’t seem likely to happen, at the moment. 

Sherlock sighed and sat up. John let out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. 

And quick as lightening, Sherlock straddled him, large, elegant hands pinning down his shoulders. 

“Think,” he demanded. “When- Else-”

“During sex,” John gasped and then blushed furiously. 

Sherlock stared at him, before pulling back a little and shifting his hips. John bit back a groan.

“Brilliant,” he said, his eyes boring into John’s and suddenly, John wasn’t quite sure what conversation they were having. 

He didn’t have long to wonder. Sherlock’s warm lips descended insistently onto his, his hands awkwardly clenching into the thin material of John’s shirt. The kisses were gentle, fumbling and, somehow, ridiculously arousing. John rolled them over, taking advantage of Sherlock’s vulnerability to press him into the bed sheets. He yanked Sherlock back by his hair, frustrated, and pressed a line of punishing kisses down that impossibly long neck.

“What. The. Fuck. Are you doing?” he asked, growling each word against the creamy skin.

Sherlock didn’t answer him. “Any amorous activity really-oh god, John-had to be the wife-” he gasped, as John slipped his fingers under the collar of the tight purple shirt that was straining across the detective's chest. 

“Go on,” John demanded, pulling open the buttons so that the shirt slid partly off of one bony shoulder. 

“Stopped him by the door-”

John let the shirt fall open and ran his fingers up the long, lanky body splayed out underneath him, tugged lightly at the slowly hardening nipples. “And?”

“And she probably just- something a little rough-” 

John pushed fabric out of the way, buried his hands in Sherlock hair again and nipped the base of his neck, thrown back invitingly like some absurd romance heroine. “Like that?”

“Harder-” 

John bit down as hard as he dared, cradling the curly head in his hands and Sherlock’s hands came up to grip his arms, his back arching. 

“Fuck-John-” The curse in that deep, posh voice went straight to John’s groin. He laved the bite with his tongue, noting the redness with satisfaction. It ought to show quite well in the morning- Shit. What the hell were they doing? 

Sherlock valiantly continued. “She probably soothed it with something she’d prepared and the poison absorbed into the bloodstream-no one would look.”

John sat back, uncomfortably aware of just how aroused he was and how obvious it must be to Sherlock. “Brilliant,” he said honestly. He rubbed his finger over the darkening love-bite. “Er-I’m-”

“Not good,” Sherlock confirmed. He smiled hesitantly and pushed up John’s shirt, sliding his fingers under the waistband of his pajama pants.

“Still not good?” he inquired innocently.

John sucked in a ragged breath. “No, Sherlock, we need to- talk or something-”

Sherlock pulled him down again, threading the fingers of one hand through John’s, the other pushing up under his shirt and across his back. 

“I was under the impression we just did,” he murmured and John laughed against his lips.

“This is a terrible idea.”

Sherlock languidly lifted his hips and ground them slowly against John’s. “Dangerous, even,” he agreed and John knew he’d lost that particular battle.

“Fuck you.”

“Go right ahead, Dr. Watson.” 

John kissed him teasingly, letting his tongue slip between those perfect lips.

“I plan on it.” 

…………………

It was only later, curled around his flatmate’s- Lover’s?-body that a sudden thought occurred to him.

“Sherlock, why’d you wake me up to begin with?”

Sherlock snuffled contentedly into his neck, one leg sprawled across John’s thighs. 

“Needed someone to talk through,” he mumbled sleepily.

“Hang on, why not just talk to the skull? Or the wall?”

He could practically feel Sherlock’s smirk against his skin.

“You appear to have certain other advantages over an inanimate object.”

“You planned this?!”

“Of course not. I merely predicted it based on evidence.”

John sighed and wrapped his arm firmly around the genius’s bare back. He definitely deserved that award.


End file.
